


The Price of Revenge

by citizenjess (givehimonemore)



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: M/M, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 20:37:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/givehimonemore/pseuds/citizenjess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Metal Masked Assassin knows exactly how to get under Charles' skin. Alternate ending to "Dethrelease".</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Price of Revenge

He wakes up in a dingy cell. The smell of death invades his nostrils; it's not unfamiliar to him, but it's still repugnant.

The laughter that greets him is sinister. He blinks a few times - his vision is hazy - and that's when he realizes his face is caked with dried blood. When he reaches up to wipe at it, he discovers that his glasses are broken, both lenses shattered.

He can still make out the hulking frame of the masked assassin, however. "Good, you're conscious." Charles can tell he's smiling. "You're much more fun conscious."

Charles' nose is broken, too. It hurts to snarl, but he does it anyway. "Do your worst," he taunts. True, he's not in the greatest position to be saucy, but he's been in far, far worse ones.

The assassin gestures. "Oh, I will," he smirks, and that's when Charles sees Nathan for the first time. The lead singer is roped to a chair, arms wrenched behind his back, booted feet tugged together around the ankles. His head is down, long hair falling limply around his face. He's still unconscious, but Charles swears he can see dried blood on the crown of his head. He grits his teeth furiously. It is the visual approximation of one of his worst nightmares realized, and the assassin knows it.

"Nathan," he calls out quietly. His voice cracks. He's dehydrated; he's been unconscious for a while.

Rudely, the assassin stalks over, wrenching Nathans' head up by grasping a handful of dark hair. His eyes are closed, and a gash on his head oozes a little. Very quietly, he moans, almost as if drawn back to consciousness by the sheer will of Dethklok's CFO. The assassin tugs on his hair again. "Wake up," he rasps, glancing knowingly at Charles, who is biting his lip hard enough now to draw blood. "Wake up, you piece of shit."

Nathan does, green eyes glassy. "Ugh, my b-back ..." he mumbles. "Fuck, I'm sore ..." He blinks a few times, finally seeming to realize that he's not in his bed at Mordhaus, sleeping off one of his usual post-concert hangovers. "What ... the fuck," he chokes out. His eyes, now more fearful, dart around the dimly lit room, trying to ascertain for their owner some sense of where he is. His gaze rests on Charles; their eyes meet. "Ofdensen," he mouths, and seems to realize that Charles is trapped on the 'wrong' side of a cage. Finally, Nathan glares at the assassin. "Who the fuck are you?" he spits. "Why are we here? What do you want?"

The assassin smiles. It's the only part of his face that's visible. "You don't need to know my name," he tells them both. "All you need to know is that my brother is dead because of you."

"His brother? Look, pal, we don't know who your fucking brother is, all right? We don't send out our own Christmas cards-"

"Nathan, his brother was a man known as Agent 216. He was ... impaled on Murderface's codpiece last year," Charles says quietly. The assassin's mouth sets into a firm line at the explanation. Then, without warning, he punches Nathan in the stomach, hard.

"Don't do that," Charles tells the assassin calmly. It is a warning. His composition hides the abject panic he feels watching Nathan get hurt. He gave in long ago to the notion that he was willing to do anything - anything - to keep Dethklok safe. He has no idea whether the rest of the band is in a similar predicament, or whether there will even be a Mordhaus to go back to, assuming he can get the both of them out of this shithole alive. Nonetheless, he'll either do it, or die trying, he vows.

Nathan is doubled over as much as the ropes allow him to be. He squirms when the assassin pulls out a knife, holding it up to his cheek. "I could cut your eyeballs out," the masked man breathes, nicking the pad of his thumb a little to demonstrate just how sharp the instrument is. "I could cut out your tongue." He points at Charles; once more, Nathan's eyes follow; green flecks pierce through the bars, into Charles' heart. "I will do all of those things," the assassin vows. "But first," he smiles, "I'm going to give you a scar to match his."

Charles' hand automatically goes to his own cheek. The wound is still open, though the blood has mostly clotted and dried. He knows the assassin is doing this for his benefit; he also knows that no amount of pleading will get him to stop. The masked man has correctly guessed the best way to break him. There will be no negotiations on either end.

Nathan's scream when the knife pierces his flesh is gutteral, devastating. Needing no further provocation, Charles throws himself against the bars. The cage is old, but he still isn't going to be able to simply drop-kick it into submission. Then, out of sheer frustration, he attempts to do just that.

The assassin tsks. "Do it again, and I slit his throat," he promises menacingly. "Then I'll make you drink his blood."

"Okay, that is seriously fucked up," Nathan interjects. "Like, seriously, fuck you, man." The assassin hisses. Nathan's nose crinkles. "Oh God, brush your teeth."

Nathan's protesting of his own murder is the only impetus that Charles needs. By the time the assassin regains his bearings, the CFO has gained the upper hand. "Time to die," the masked man rumbles at Nathan. Then his knife arm is wrenched behind his back.

"I did say you didn't want to do that," Charles tells him grimly, and then he plunges the assassin's own weapon through his chest. The masked man gurgles blood, and finally slumps, slack, in Charles' grip. With little remorse, Charles lets his corpse fall to the concrete floor, head hitting with a loud crack. Then, panting, he makes his way over to Nathan. Gingerly, he touches the front man's head wound, and then the (thankfully, shallow) cut made by the knife in his cheek. Nathan winces.

"Sorry," Charles says. He uses one of his own hidden weapons, miraculously still on his person, to free the larger man. Nathan blinks at him, his expression fluctuating between fear and surprise. "I'm also sorry you had to witness that," Charles admits.

Nathan shakes his head. "It's cool. It's pretty like, brutal. I didn't know you could pick locks. Or like, murder someone."

Charles finds his Dethphone. With but a few quick, coded messages, he is able to secure estimates of men lost on the attack on Mordhaus, and also status updates on the other band members: Stable. Apparently, a group of Klokateers trained for just such an attack had quickly swamped the scene, but it hadn't been enough for them to save either Charles or Nathan from being taken by the assassin.

The Dethphone finds their coordinates; Charles orders a helicopter to come pick them up, with first aid supplies on board, and requests yet another squadron of men to come in their leave and 'take care' of the masked assassin. He doesn't want his boys to be subjected to any more reality than they're ready for. He fears that Nathan watching him kill a man has already been too much.

He watches the other man carefully as they wait together for their transportation to arrive. "So," Nathan says finally, "I guess I should say 'thanks'. You know, for saving me, and for putting up with us and stuff. We're pretty annoying sometimes. Especially Murderface." He pauses. "So, you know. Thanks."

"You're welcome." Charles returns sincerely. He feels like Nathan is waiting for something more. "And ... I will always be there to save you, Nathan," he offers. "I'm always watching to make sure you're safe. You are, and always will be my top priority."

Nathan's eyes blaze green fire as their gazes meet yet again. He swallows. Finally, he shrugs with forced nonchalance. "By the way, I think some of the other guys think it's possible to suck their own dicks. I think that's what they were doing before the show, but not me. You should like, make sure they get tested, or somethin'."

"I'll do that." Then they look up as the band's private helicopter appears overhead. They watch it together in silence as it descends towards the cold, blood-spattered earth below.


End file.
